Kiss Me Hard Before You Go
by Incidental
Summary: Time cannot heal all mistakes, but it can provide hope. I just wanted you to know that, Baby, you're the best. Rating may change.
1. Un

Hello, loves! Alright, I don't own any character here. I don't own Harry Potter. This is AU and, in case it is unclear, Lucius is significantly older than Narcissa. As a fair warning this was originally meant to be a roleplay starter (...PM me if interested? ;D) so it doesn't feel complete to me at all. Thoughts?

* * *

_Un._

**I think I'll miss you forever,**  
** like the stars miss the sun in the morning skies**

It was raining that night, Narcissa vaguely registered as she stared out the half-cleaned windowpane. Her breath collected on the glass and she gingerly reached one, delicate hand to wipe away the fog. Her eyes reflected then, glassy and blue; the color of the ocean when summer had hit its apex and one could see right to the sand floor of the marine world. They were pale irises, unable to stand up to the dark depths of her pupils; the blue drowned in them, as if sinking into a black hole of nothingness from which it never would escape. Perhaps one day she would wake up blind to the world, her irises having finally succumbed to the pull of black, depressive depths.

She turned her head away, shaking the few blonde strands of her hair that had freed themselves from the taught bun on the back of her head. She tried to rid her mind of the melancholy thoughts that permeated her wall of complete apathy. One breath. Another. With one hand pressed against the gentle, practically unnoticeable curve of her stomach and the other pressed to the base of her throat she calmed herself. She caught her reflection again, this time from a mirror across the room. There she stood, all of nineteen in a gown that concealed that small bump in a magnificent way; only those who already knew would know about the babe slowly growing within her blue-blooded womb. It was blue; like the color of her eyes, the shade of her blood, the aura that surrounded her. The fabric fell to the floor, satisfyingly brushing between her legs as she walked across the hardwood. The gauze, tulle, and stain that stood between her and their could offer some form of protection from her betrothed, could it not? Her pleas and protestations did only so little, but the man was such a materialistic _gentleman_ that the thousand-galleons worth of material might dissuade his advances.

She had found him in Paris, or more correctly- her father had found him and shipped his youngest daughter- a disgrace, an almost pariah to Paris. It was a perfect match, he said with a lack of emotion that was almost terrifying compared to the anger that had leapt from Cygnus' lips during the past weeks. She had failed him again. She had been his last child, his last daughter, and his last failure at attempts to conceive an heir. She had been his last hope for a respectable marriage as well and that had hope had disappeared faster then the droplets of water, outside, had made their way down the windows. She still remembered his eyes when it had been revealed. Anger. Loss. Disappointment. Another wave of melancholy- or was that nausea?- causing Narcissa Black to sit down on the edge of the bed.

She had found him for her. A meaningless man to marry and raise the child with, that was all Evan Rosier was for her. She had slept with him, just once, shortly after her arrival in the country. She had been seeking something; a warmth, an intimacy that she was so used to feeling in the aftermath of love making. There was nothing but a feeling of lead weight rolling in her stomach after the act. She'd rushed to the shower the moment he'd fallen asleep beside her. They already knew, then, that they were to be engaged and married; contracts had been sighed saying so, but it would have all be very inappropriate to announce and celebrate so close to her grand papa's death. Mourning had ended this past fortnight and she, the prodigal daughter, was called home. The act, so uncharacteristically pushed for by her father was a cover for the man her sire called a fiend and blackguard. Evan believed, as he should have, that the small pureblood growing deep within his future bride was a Rosier fathered by a Rosier to be raised by a Rosier.

Others knew different.

Her father, the illustrious Governor of Hogwarts, would never know the father of her babe. He would never know who had defiled-yet truly loved- his most delicate flower. He would never guess, never fathom in his wildest, crudest imagination, that the little feathering of blond hair and gray eyes came from the man who stood beside him at meetings- a man nearly his own age. He knew the man's history. He knew his employment history- a Potion's Master at Hogwarts- and his blood status. He knew the man's beliefs and allegiances. He knew the man's taste in brandy and cognac. He knew the man's name, his full name. But he did not know just who had been sharing his bed for the past four years.

Narcissa had refused to give her lover away, fearing for him. She had known the consequences of doing so. Perhaps the law would not punish him, for the law could not possibly know the extent to which this affair had been going on for, but her father could. Talks of marriage had been brushed away with such complete disregard that Narcissa's heart had felt flattened by the weight of the world now resting against her. Even when he knew, even when her lover had known about the babe within her, a proposition had not come that night. Not even talk of bringing the idea to her father for an alliance.

A week later she had been in Paris. No letters sent his way. No tokens of affection dabbed with her lavender perfume packaged in parchment envelopes to remind him of her. She had left, cut everything close to the seams of her life, and disappeared for three months.

And now she had returned. The crowd gathered below for the Beltane celebration the Black Family traditionally always threw had to know she had returned. There must be chatter below about just why she had disappeared and rumors of just who this Rosier fellow was. The engagement was no more rushed them most, though the timing so close to the end of mourning was just suspicious enough to feed the gossips.

Narcissa had not entered with her family, as she usually did. Nor had she entered in with Rosier. She had claimed a small upset in her stomach- something the family had taken for as being the woman's sickness that invaded all fertile, full witches. She had been, truly, nervous. She had not wanted all those eyes on her and all those whispers filling the empty space of air. It was better this way, small commotion rather than a large scene.

She slipped from her bedroom and into the ballroom quietly, not looking expectant or confident, as was her usual humor. Her nose barely raised itself into the air. An enchanted tray nudged her elbow and offered a glass of champagne- she rejected it, prodding the wood away. A House elf would bring her sparkling grape juice; water would further feed the gossiping mamas.

The blonde moved through the crowd of people, smiling and thanking everyone for their half-hearted 'welcome home!' and merely laughing as several friends requested to _finally_ meet her _darling_ Rosier. She stilled after yet another group of simpering girls, taking a breath and raising her eyes to the chandelier above her. She had, she realized with a soft gasp, reached the center of the room. In another breeze of realization, Narcissa closed her eyes and caught her breath. She was in the center of hundreds of people who were all laughing and smiling and drinking her father's bubbly. This was her world; the society she had been bred, born, and raised to grasp in the center of her pale, pureblood-filled palm.

She looked over her shoulder slowly and locked eyes with Evan, lowering hers quickly. He was moving towards her, faster as he broke through several groups of people (who, were no doubt, disgruntled over this new comer's rudeness). She moved around in a circle, her skirt spreading out as her eyes scanned the crowd. Mirrors. Mirrors and people. Everywhere.

Her whitewashed eyes found doors, ones she knew would lead her to her mother's garden. She moved towards them with her eyes closed, apologizing as she cut through the people, her hands coming up to protect her face. She only stopped, looking up, when she felt two hands grasp her wrists much too firmly. She looked up and bit her lip, locking her eyes with the muddy-puddle brown ones of her to-be husband. Narcissa studied his face for the firs time; his skin was smooth, untouched by any hardships of life. The lines in his forehead were severe, angry. Perhaps that was just the way his eyebrows were dipped down between his eyes. There were some patches of hair that had been shaved earlier, but only patches. She wondered if the man before her was even able to grow a beard yet.

"And where were you going, Miss Black?" He asked, the smile he wore on his face not quite reaching his eyes. His grip on her wrists tightened. "A hostess should not leave her party. Especially after arriving late, _my love_."

Narcissa swallowed. "I couldn't, I couldn't breathe. So many people, you know, _my love_." She stressed the last words, mimicking his tone. "Especially in my state. Escort me then, if you so insist?"

He did insist. He insisted on quite a lot of things. His plates had to be placed in very certain fashions. His clothing had to be expensive and from only particular designers. His coffee must be stirred clockwise and his fiancé must always be at his side. Narcissa leaned against the railings of the garden, taking a deep breath. The air filled her lungs, satisfying at least _something_ within her.

She was closing her eyes, enjoying the buzz of little creatures in the garden the way the scents of flowers seemed to mingle with the air she inhaled, giving it a decadent taste. Did air have a taste? This did. It tasted like magic and peace and something lovely. Perhaps it was just the wishes she had deep down nestled in her womb next to the unborn child. Perhaps it was just Beltane.

She barely had time to think on this before she was turned about to face Rosier.

"This behavior…needs improvement, Narcissa." He chided, reaching up to press his palm to the side of her face. "Ever since we arrived here you have been…odd." He leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers much too vigorously for her taste.

She accepted it for a moment, though her lips, as always had been her fashion when kissing Rosier, didn't move against his. She then pressed the tips of her fingers to the velvet of his robes and pushed him away. "Evan. My sickness," She said softly, pressing a hand to her stomach and stepping back. Her backside hit the brick of the wall and the leaves of a rose bush tickled the exposed skin of her shoulders.

There was silence then. Not a sweet silence in which she could enjoy the sound of her lover's breathing. It was tangible, unenjoyably, and awkward. She cleared her throat and gestured to the fountain.

"My sister and I," She began softly. "We used to wade in the fountain when we were girls, during the summer months. It would be nice to do so now, don't you think, Evan? The night is so warm and the air is so…. crisp with energy. Do you think it's the Sabbat?"

Narcissa allowed a lazy smile to spread across her lips, hers genuinely reaching every aspect of her features. Is this not what lovers did, sharing curiosities and self-indulgent desires? As her eyes returned to his, her smile disappeared far quicker than it had grown.

"I detest your flaws, Narcissa Black. You are to seek to remedy them. You are entirely too childish." He said coldly, releasing her upper arm. She had forgotten that he'd been gripping her skin. The discoloration was visible even with just the flicker of a few candles above them.

"Childlike," She corrected softly, jutting her chin out. Her flaws grew defensive.

"Far too silly," He continued, his face hardening.

"I am _soulful_," she snapped ever so slightly.

He leaned forward until his nose touched hers. She could smell whiskey on this breath. "And you have disgusting freckles."

She finally pushed him away, her weak wrists able to do so with surprising skill. She was far used to someone with muscles holding her down. On a bed. Against a wall. She was too distracted to let her cheeks flush at those fleeting thoughts. "That's a lie!"

"You deceive yourself," he barked. "You know," He said, breathing in her scent from his close proximity. "It's a sign of immaturity to wear lavender perfume before you're forty."

"Well…you're a poseur! I've heard you, down in my father's garden, talking to yourself and reciting romantic poems…about yourself! Ha! The _great_ duelist!"

"You're adolescent!"

"I'm going to take my clothes off and go wading in the fountain!"

"It's not my problem, _enfant_. If that thing in your womb is a boy, you'll hardly talk with me again. I am going to go back to Paris or London and drink and gamble."

Narcissa's teeth were clenched so tightly a casual observer may have wondered if her tiny little bones in her jaw were ready to snap. "Oh, I'll find my own pleasures. I'll have an affair!"

Rosier was close again, his chest practically pressing her breasts flat. His breath slipped into her nostrils, the alcohol upsetting Narcissa's already generally unstable stomach. She was relived when he finally pulled away after a slow, steady warning of: "You had best be discreet, dearest."

She moved away from the spot with a speed she had not imagined her shaking legs to be capable of. Her twisting hands mimicked the feeling in her stomach; churning pits of snakes swallowing each other in and endless chain that would not stop until she collapsed to slept or spewed them up from within her. Twisting her fingers around the trellis, she ignored the shuffle of feet and small mutterings behind her.

Rosier had stood watching her for a few moments before turning on his heal and wanting nothing more than another scotch and to return to the gathering inside. He clipped another man's shoulder, who had had the opposite intention of him and was making _his_ way outside, offering a rather apathetic apology. He barely looked up, just long enough to catch a glimpse of shoulder length blond hair tide neatly over one shoulder and cold, steel grey eyes. When Rosier was finally inside with another glass in his eager little hand, he turned his head just slightly to peek out the glass doors that lead to the garden just long enough to witness his petite fiancé run into this stranger's embrace and mouth '_Lucius_' before her face was buried in his shoulder.


	2. Deux

There actually hadn't been any plan to continue this. But thanks to two very, very special people- Chelz and Hailey - here's a bit of something...with more to come. I don't own anything you recognize, blahblahblah.

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_Deux._

**Tell me life is beautiful, they all think I have it all.  
I've ****_nothing_**** without you.  
All my dreams and all the lights mean ****_nothing_**** without you.**

Lucius Malfoy refilled the glass of brandy he'd only half finished. It would be his third one that evening, though it had been years since any sort of spirit had done much to _his_ spirit. He had thought to dull his mind that evening, sick of the thoughts that slipped into his psyche every time he let his attentions wander. The blond pressed his foot to the carper and half-slumped into his chair. The eyes ever-so-fixated on the rows of books before him blurred slightly as the corners of his mouth twisted into a smirk. 'No, sick was the wrong word,' his mind chastised. 'Brilliant, wonderful, sensual, earned, wanted…anything but sick.'

They were always the same, in essence. A lithe, small-breasted blonde under him, in his lap, begging him to love her. Oh, they all came with different scenarios. It was as if each daily occurrence inspired his fantasies. One his desk at work, in his private box at the opera, a dark corner of every dinner party he attended, in his stables. Perhaps she'd become a mediwitch and give him a thorough exam. Maybe she'd accept a position as his terrible, poorly behaved cousin's children's governess. They had begun bordering on the line of desperate and ridiculous. _His_ Narcissa, the prideful vixen, would never actually do anything for a wage. He let out a chuckle, breaking the silence. The two large (and extremely lazy, considering their original purpose of purchase) hunting dogs sat up, and Sage- the larger of the two beasts- let out a low bark.

"Damned dogs", he murmured, giving them a silencing-sort of look. Sage went to bark again, though it shifted quickly into more of a whine. They'd not been the same since She had managed to get her hands on them. Thistle, the female of the pair, had a now-wilted bow about her neck. Sage expected to be permitted a spot on his bed, never mind the new inability for the two to sleep in the stables.

She'd always been too kind as far as animals were concerned. The kitten he'd purchased for her had been proof; white fur, blue eyes, exquisite breeding, and not a _single_ bit of obedience. He was often equally likely to find the damned thing nestled amongst graded reports in his desk drawer as he was to find the thing in his owner's arms. She'd insisted the dogs (which had been just fine in the stables for seven years and as others had been fine in the same spot for countless generations) much preferred to be curled up at the foot of his bed or in the very least given a down pillow before the fireplace. Silly girl, he chided in his head. But even that caused the corners of his mouth to turn up and a sickening feeling of bands tightening around his chest. Lucius brought his hands to his face and rubbed at his eyes.

Even this room haunted him. His study. It was supposed to be his sanctuary should he ever find a wife and beget an heir from her. He'd had Narcissa several times on various pieces of furniture within the wood paneled walls. Each time he loved her was memorable in its own way, as if he was taking her for the first time or in some new fangled fashion. The amount he'd give to have her sprawled across the lounge, merely reading a book as he slowly stroked the length of her spine in a lovely post-love glow…he couldn't name a limit on it.

He shouldn't have gone to the Black's dinner. That was where he went wrong. All he wanted was a look at her, at his darling. After what she'd done, how could he ignore the longing in the pit of his stomach? He wanted to see her upset, battled one part of his mind. The other half disagreed; she needed to be blissfully content with the life she'd made for herself. To tell him she was bearing his child and then to disappear to France for four months? No floo calls, no patronus, not even a goddamned owl to explain. Had she lost the child? Had she 'taken care' of the child? Why had she left him? Who was the doting, stupid prat of a boy twenty years his junior planning to marry her? Lucius finger's clenched around the stem of his snifter.

He'd had a great deal of his questions answered, of course. He had wanted them answered and it wasn't anyone else's fault but his if he so choose to dislike what the answers were. It was his favorite fantasy come to life before swirling into a nightmare.

_She'd stood on the balcony, clutching a balustrade. All legs, blonde hair, and bright blue eyes that would startle Merlin himself. The slight curve of her stomach beneath his favorite color and the ever so small swell of her breasts gave him an ache in his heart and a knot in his stomach; his petite love, quickened with his seed and carrying his child. Not the boy who'd held her fragile wrist too tightly and produced the god-awful, tacky ring on her finger. His. But his angel was crying and lost. He had cursed himself for ever wishing ill will. _

_The moment their eyes had met, Narcissa had run to him. Lucius had been unable to do anything but hold her tight to his chest as she cried. His fingers slid into her hair, the pins be damned if they could possibly stop him from touching her silken locks again. After several moments her breath began to even and her tears started to fade. Lucius had brought his thumb and finger to her jaw, tilting her head up so their eyes could meet. _

_"Narcissa I would have-," He began, but she cut him off as she choked out the answers he didn't ask for._

_"I have to marry him, Lucius. He thinks it's his, so it might as well be. If it were to get out that it was...that you and I...," Narcissa had to take a moment to breathe again, though she allowed Lucius to press his handkerchief to the corners of her eyes. "The results will never favor anything good if I don't. Either I was wanton in school or a whore while engaged. You were either a pervert or a lecherous wife-stealer. And I could care less if people think I had cheated on him- Merlin himself would have condoned the behavior- but I will not have people speak of you that way. Your reputation in the ministry will be lost, your career at Hogwarts completely ruined."_

_She'd thought this through, he realized. And heart-breakingly so, her own pain was to save him. Her unhappiness was to provide him with some sort of lifestyle. Wasn't this the wrong way around? Weren't older gentlemen supposed to leave their little love-ettes in the same or better condition from which they came across them? He should tell her so, tell her he didn't care, tell her that the ministry and all of Hogwarts could bugger off so long as he could touch her again. Before he could open his mouth, Narcissa was out of his arms and back towards the house. _

_"My Mama will be missing me, Luc," she said, her voice soft and broken sounding. Lucius noticed, as she wrung her hands, a small bruise had started to form on her wrist. After a pause, she mouthed 'I love you.' He guessed that she'd meant to say the words aloud but her voice hadn't been found. She had been gone before he could return them. _

As the memories of that night unfolded before his eyes, as it had many times in that past week, he downed the last of the brandy in his glass and then turned to take a swig directly from the bottle. He wanted her here, with him. Not just sexually. His fantasies could be damned, his manhood be damned so long as he had Her. A muffled whine and then a yap from Sage brought his attention back to the dogs. "Dog, if you do not stop the bloody, damned noise I swear I shall-," But his words stopped coming as he realized what the creature was making noise at. A blonde girl, wrapped in a black silk cloak, looking suddenly cross at him.

"Don't swear at them, Lucius Malfoy. They're just being _dogs_," the figure chastised. He had drunk too much. He was hallucinating. Perhaps this wasn't really brandy. Perhaps he didn't give a flying damn.

"Narcissa," he breathed, standing up and placing the decanter down as he crossed the room in two steps to meet her. His hands cupped her face and his eyes scanned it, as if trying to figure out if she was real.

Narcissa pressed a hand to her stomach and shifted the cloak from her shoulders. She still looked cross. Why would his fantasy be cross with him? "You smell of brandy, Luc," She whispered, her nose wrinkling. "Poor quality at that. It's making my stomach roll."

But he didn't care, just then, if she was sick all over his clothing. He pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply. His tongue slid across her bottom lip before plunging into her. He nipped and stroked and claimed her as much as he could with just his mouth. His hands never left her face, anchoring her to place. He noted with immense pleasure, when he finally pulled away, that her eyes had gone soft. Lucius watched as she licked her lips, keeping them slightly parted.

"Lucius I _can't_ -"

"I _won_'t let-"

Their words crashed into each other, stopping them both in their tracks. It was all the confirmation both of them needed just then. Lucius wrapped his arms around her and with an ease that shouldn't exist halfway through her pregnancy, he lifted her up in his arms and backed her towards the lounge several steps away. His hands went to her skirts, hitching them up as he bent to reclaim to her lips with his. He paused, suddenly aware of their situation and her state and met her eyes to wait for her go ahead. Her hands, he realized with a soft, purely joyous laugh that her hands were already fumbling to free him from his trousers. He grabbed at her hand suddenly, practically ripping the gold and ruby band from her finger to toss the ring away. Neither could have cared less where it landed or if it was capable of being retrieved and before the metal had even clinked to the ground and rolled away he was inside her.


End file.
